


Rule #1: Peggy Carter is sometimes wrong

by burninglights



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Cartinelli - Freeform, Coffee Shops, F/F, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Movie Dates, as canon as possible but I have bad memory, cute shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 07:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5735659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burninglights/pseuds/burninglights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: The four times Peggy apologizes to Angie, and the one time she doesn't.</p><p>Peggy Carter pushes open the door and takes a corner seat, still feeling like she's somehow betraying her Queen by being publicly seen drinking coffee twice in a week (and /enjoying/ it, too). Angie spots her from across the Automat and comes hurrying over, a huge, shit-eating grin plastered to her face. “English!” She bends down and pulls the woman into a tight, brief hug.</p><p>When Angie finally pulls away, Peggy isn’t sure what she’s more concerned about – the fact that this waitress doesn’t seem to understand the meaning of personal space (of which she herself places great importance) or the fact that she actually finds herself enjoying the said invasion of personal space. She clears her throat. “I have a name, you know,” she says. “It’s Peggy. Peggy Carter.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peggy isn’t a big fan of coffee.

Peggy Carter waits in line for her coffee with mounting frustration. After the war, she’d gone right back to work, hoping that it would keep her too busy to notice the gaping, Captain-America sized hole in her heart. That turned out to be a fat load of wishful thinking, though. Most days, all she did was answer calls, dispatch messages, and get coffee for the guys back in the office – it wasn’t exactly the kind of work that kept a person too busy to think.

Telling her friends and acquaintances that she worked as a telephone operator became less and less of a lie as the days wore on. What’s more, the ungallant, oversexed louts at the SSR (just the thought of Agent Thomson and his smug smile made her skin crawl) were so _unlike_ Steve that they served only to remind her constantly of him. She’d finally stopped crying silently into her pillow at night, but sometimes she still dreamt of plane crashes, static, dancing, the war, and what could’ve been.

Today, exactly six months after Steve’s death – not that she’s counting – Peggy’s in a fouler mood than usual, and the fact that she has been forced once again to act as some kind of low-wage errand girl doesn’t improve matters at all.

It’s nearly nine when she finally collects her coffee and stalks back out into the street. She rounds the corner with such haste that she doesn’t notice the other woman sprinting straight toward her. Peggy’s eyes widen almost comically as she sees the coffee cups in her hands collide against the young woman’s light green waitress uniform. She grabs at the cups in a vain attempt to avert the disaster, but even her reflexes aren’t fast enough to prevent the inevitable. The brown stains spread like multiple gun shots to the chest. Peggy blinks and forces the image out of her head. “I’m so sorry,” She says, laying a hand on the other woman’s shoulder to steady her. “Are you okay?”

The woman laughs. “I’ll survive.”

“Well then, I’m sorry about the dress,” Peggy says. She pulls out a handkerchief from her pocket and hands it over.

“Aw, don’t worry ‘bout it – this uniform’s already so hideous that a coupla coffee stains ain’t gonna hurt.” She gives the dress a brief swipe, then tosses the handkerchief back at Peggy. Her gaze meets Peggy’s for the first time; her light green eyes are so beautiful that Peggy nearly forgets how to breathe. She shakes the thought out of her head (since _when_ does she even notice other people’s _eyes_?) and forces herself to concentrate on what the woman is saying. “’Sides, this coffee is so bad that it’s practically transparent anyway. Next time, drop by L &L Automat instead. We have real coffee there.” She winks at Peggy, then raises a hand in farewell. Peggy just blinks in response.

It takes Peggy almost a minute to regain her senses. She tosses the now-empty cups into the trash and starts walking. “ _Real_ _coffee_ ,” She scoffs. “There’s no such thing as real _coffee_.”

She's almost halfway back to the SSR Headquarters when she realizes that she has to buy another round of coffee to replace the ones she’s spilt. “Oh bugger,” She says, scowling and retracing her steps.

…

The woman recognizes her the moment she steps in. She gives her a smile brilliant enough to power the entire city. “Hello there. Wasn’t expecting to see you so soon – not that I’m complainin’ or anything. What can I get you?”

“Actually, it’s not for me – I don’t drink coffee – but the geezers at my office are apparently too fat and lazy to get their own.” Peggy says.

“You don’t drink _coffee_?” The waitress shakes her head and stares at her like she’s just said something blasphemous. “You’re _English_ , aren’t you?”

Peggy nods, rather baffled as to where this particular conversation was going. “I did grow up in Britain, yes.”

The waitress pauses to give Peggy a once-over, then bustles into the kitchen like she’s on an urgent mission to save the world. She comes out a few moments later with a cup of piping hot double espresso with a splash of cream.

Peggy groans. “I really don’t have the time-”

“What, you can’t spare a minute to save yourself from eighty years of miserable, coffee-less existence?”

Peggy sighs and caves in. It wasn’t like she had better things to do in the office, anyway. “Alright, but don’t be disappointed. I’m really more of a tea person.”

“We’ll see about that,” the woman says smugly, pressing the cup into Peggy’s hand. Peggy shakes her head wryly and takes a sip. She blinks, swallows, and takes another large mouthful, nearly scalding herself in the process - not that she even notices. She looks back up at the waitress, both incredulous and wonderstruck. “I don’t- this is-” She gives up on words and fixes the waitress with a rare, fleeting smile that goes right up to her eyes.

“Told you so, English,” The woman says, grinning back at her. “Now – what shall I get for the office geezers?” Peggy rattles off the order she knows by heart – a depressing waste of brain capacity, she thinks – and the waitress passes the order on to the kitchen while Peggy stands by the counter and savors her drink. They chat a little while waiting, and when the order’s ready, the waitress takes the empty cup from Peggy’s hand and hands her the rest of her order. “Don’t go spillin’ this all over the next unsuspectin’ gal now.”

Peggy smiles and thanks her. It’s only when she reaches the SSR headquarters and finishes handing out the coffee that she notices that on the inside of one of the now-empty paper bags, the waitress has left her name. And below that, scrawled inconspicuously and almost as an afterthought, are the words, “come back soon, English.”

Peggy’s lips curl up into a small smile in spite of herself.

…

As it turns out, she _does_ go back to the Automat three days later. It’s the end of a long, grueling week of mind-numbingly boring work, and Peggy finds herself heading back to L &L in the hopes that a cup of coffee and a brief, ten-minute rest would give her the energy needed to drag her sorry self back to her apartment.

She pushes open the door and takes a corner seat, still feeling like she's somehow betraying her Queen by being publicly seen drinking coffee twice in a week (and _enjoying_  it, too). Angie spots her from across the Automat and comes hurrying over, a huge, shit-eating grin plastered to her face. “ _English_!” She bends down and pulls the woman into a tight, brief hug.

When Angie finally pulls away, Peggy isn’t sure what she’s more concerned about – the fact that this waitress doesn’t seem to understand the meaning of _personal space_ (of which she herself places _great_ importance) or the fact that she actually finds herself enjoying the said invasion of personal space. She clears her throat. “I have a name, you know,” she says. “It’s Peggy. Peggy Carter.”

Angie smiles at her cheekily. “Alright then, Ms. Peggy ‘I’m more of a tea person’ Carter – what should I get you today?”

Peggy smiles. “Same thing, please.”

Angie punches her playfully on the arm. “Nah, c’mon, let me fix you something else. You’ll love it, I promise.” She winks at her and all Peggy can do is shake her head in exasperation.

The waitress comes back with the drink a few moments later. Peggy tries it and sighs. “This is really good too,” she admits ruefully.

Angie just grins at her. “Stay for a while," She says, and Peggy can't find it in herself to refuse - not when the other woman's staring at her like that. Besides, it's a Friday night after all, and a few more minutes wasn't going to hurt anybody.

Business is slow at that time of the night, and Angie makes it a point to slip into the seat opposite her whenever she has free time. She’s easy to talk to – funny, honest and remarkably kind. Peggy isn’t much of a talker, less than ever since the war, but somehow Angie’s got a way about her that makes her feel light, comfortable, and safe. Time slips by like honey and before she knows it, it’s closing time and she’s biting back a yawn. Angie laughs and pushes her gently out of the door. “Have a good night, English,” is followed by the most lascivious wink she’s ever seen from a decent-looking lady, and Peggy finds herself shaking her head once again as she steps out into the cold night air.

Wink or not, Peggy leaves the restaurant feeling happier than she’s been in weeks, months maybe, and needless to say, the nights at L&L after work become a fairly regular occurrence. Peggy assumes it’s the coffee – and not the beautiful blonde waitress who supplies it – that has her coming back every night, but there’s really no way of hiding the smile that spreads involuntarily in response each and every time Angie Martinelli smiles at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This fic is technically set at the same period as the events in Season 1, but there may be some inconsistencies in the timeline or some minor anachronisms. Feel free to point them out to me.  
> 2\. I hate naming fics. Nothing ever sounds right.  
> 3\. I'm hoping to make this a five chapter fic (well, more like four, but you'll see). I've got the structure all planned out and yeah, I'm real proud of myself. This is probably the most well-thought through fic I've written, for better or for worse.  
> 4\. As usual, all kudos and comments are greatly, greatly appreciated :)


	2. Peggy isn't a fan of war movies, either.

Due to a series of unforeseen, and frankly rather horrifying events – her roommate being shot by a bullet meant for her, for instance – Peggy finds herself moving into the Griffith hotel, taking the room right next to Angie’s. 

Which turns out rather well, actually.

Peggy doesn’t have much time to herself, what with working in the SSR and running around as Howard Stark’s double agent, disabling Nitramene bombs and trying her best to make sure the man doesn't get hanged for treason – but whatever free time she _does_ have is spent in Angie’s room, drinking ice-cold bottles of snaps and chatting.

“I’m finally due for an early shift,” Angie tells her that night, taking a long sip out of her bottle and sighs happily. “The whole evening free!” 

“Mm, any plans?” 

Angie shrugs. “Maybe go shoppin’, or to the movies, perhaps - I don’t think I’ve gone since the war started.” 

Peggy hasn’t gone to the movies since the war started either. Well, more accurately, she hasn't gone to the movies _ever_. In her life. But something tells her that if she admits that to Angie, she’ll never live it down. “I - I don’t have anything scheduled in the evening either,” Peggy says. "I could – um, that is, I wouldn't mind–” She frowns and takes a deep breath. _Maybe I shouldn’t have brought up,_ she thinks, then chides herself – there was no reason _not_ to enjoy a night out with a good friend. Peggy clears her throat, and tries again, but now her tongue’s a brick in her mouth and her heart is beating too quickly and she can’t concentrate on forming coherent sentences.

Angie comes to her rescue. “I’d love to spend the evening with you,” she says.

Peggy sighs in relief. “Thanks,” she says.

“Happens to the best of us,” Angie winks at her. “So – movie, then?” 

Peggy gives her a wry smile. “Yes. I’ll meet you back here at six thirty?” 

Angie beams at her. “Sounds good to me. Anyway, - enough ‘bout me. How was your day?”

It’s well past midnight when Peggy finally manages to extricate herself from Angie’s bed (she has fallen asleep, head resting gently on Peggy's shoulder). She returns to her room and falls asleep almost immediately.

…

Peggy leaves the office at six p.m. the following evening and makes it back to the apartment with enough time to shower and change into a simple black dress. Angie knocks on her door moments later. Peggy opens it and stops short, trying her best to keep her jaw from dropping. Angie looks absolutely stunning, but Peggy has no idea why that’s even affecting her ability to breathe. The Englishwoman blinks four times before trusting herself to speak. “You look…Uh, that’s ah, that’s a nice dress,” She says, her voice coming out slightly squeakier than she'd hoped. 

Angie bursts out laughing, green eyes twinkling with gentle amusement. “Only cost three dollars, too. You ready to go?”

Peggy nods and follows her out of the room. Angie practically skips the whole way through the lobby, and her excitement does not go unnoticed by a hawk-eyed Ms. Fry. “I hope you girls are clear about the rules,” she says, the ever-present tone of warning more pronounced than ever. “ _No_ gentlemen in the apartment tonight – or any night, for that matter.”

“Aw Ms. Fry, tonight ain’t about no gentlemen,” Angie says.

“I sure hope not,” Ms. Fry says, frowning suspiciously. She keeps her eyes trained on them as they made their way towards the door, as though the mere presence of her gaze upon them would keep them out of trouble.

They reach the cinema and look through the list of movies showing that night. They’re a little late, though, so the only movie that still has seats available is something called “The Last Waltz”, with a handsome clean-cut guy in a fighter pilot’s uniform on the poster. Peggy has her reservations, but the next available movie’s an _hour_ later, so she goes along with it anyway. She buys a box of popcorn and two drinks, then follows Angie into the theatre.

Angie flops down into a seat with a small squeal of excitement. Peggy shoots her an amused sidelong glance, and leans to whisper something in her ear. Angie laughs and smacks her, then reaches over for a handful of popcorn. A few minutes later, the lights go off and music starts playing.

Peggy holds up pretty well for the first thirty minutes of the movie. Then, the male lead gets into a plane with two of his buddies and prepares to jump off into enemy territory to save some of his men trapped behind enemy lines. The eerie resemblance to… well, to the time Captain America had done practically the same thing made a familiar jolt of anxiety rush through her veins, but Peggy clenches her jaw and silently wills herself to relax. Still, though, every fight scene makes her flinch, and every close-up shot of the protagonist’s face results in a spike in her heartbeat. Fifteen minutes later, the hero and his best friend hijack a train that they suspect contains explosives, and it becomes clear that the movie is a fictionalized retelling of Steve Roger’s mythologized escapades. Peggy’s feeling kind of queasy, painful memories flashing through her mind’s eye with every new scene. She feels her nails dig into the arm rest. Angie frowns and places a hand on her arm. “Hey – Peggy, you alright?” She asks, concern etched into the dark outlines of her face. 

Peggy waves her away with a weak smile. “I’m fine,” She says tightly, swallowing hard. Angie doesn’t buy it for a minute. She leans in to peer more closely at Peggy in the darkness of the theatre. Her face is as pale, glistening with a thin sheen of cold sweat. 

“C’mon, we’re getting out of here.” Angie decides. She takes Peggy’s hand and tugs her gently out of the cinema.

They sit down on a bench just outside. Angie doesn’t press, doesn’t say anything, just sits snug against Peggy with her arm slung loosely over her shoulder. They sit for a while in silence, just watching the darkening sky and the shimmer of dark water and distant lights of Brooklyn beyond. Then, Peggy starts shaking slightly and Angie realizes that she’s crying. Angie gently adjusts her position so she can hold her properly. Peggy sniffs and melts softly into Angie’s arms, burying her head into the crook of Angie’s collarbone. A few moments pass, and then a muffled, “I think I’m getting snot all over your nice dress.” 

“Well, you got coffee on my uniform the first day I met you, so I’d say this is an improvement,” Angie says lightly. 

Peggy laughs, hiccups, and sniffs again. She eventually straightens and pulls away. They’re facing each other now, and before Angie can stop herself, she’s running a thumb down Peggy’s cheeks, wiping the tears from her face with a tenderness that brings a lump to Peggy’s throat. 

“I’m sorry,” Peggy says in a small voice. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

“Don’t be silly,” Angie says gently. “I like being with you.” 

There’s a short silence, and then the corners of Peggy’s lips begin to curl slowly upwards. Another heartbeat, and before she knows what she’s doing, Peggy has taken Angie’s hands in hers. “Thank you,” she says quietly, brown eyes flickering with a rare vulnerability that takes Angie by surprise.

“No problem, Peggy.” The waitress falters slightly – “do you um, do you still wanna go out for dinner? You can totally say no, I get it if you just wanna go home and curl up and-” 

“Dinner sounds like a great idea,” Peggy says, smiling. Angie’s anxious expression gives way to relief. They link arms and walk down the street together, easing back to a cautious rhythm of lighthearted banter. Angie’s good at making Peggy feel warm and comfortable, and she does it so effortlessly that Peggy _almost_ misses the sidelong glances Angie gives her when she thinks she’s not looking, just to make sure she’s feeling okay. Peggy notices because well, she _is_ a spy after all and it’s kind of her job to observe – but unlike her male colleagues’ paternalistic, slightly condescending benevolence, Angie’s concern is genuine and well, really sweet. Peggy’s not used to anybody caring about her – and she’s even more unaccustomed to actually _appreciating_ it. 

They sidle into a corner booth of a little diner on 19th street, just a few blocks down from the movie theatre. It’s a small space; Peggy can feel Angie’s knees pressed into hers, and for some reason, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable or awkward. They order their food and settle back against their seats. Angie’s green eyes meet Peggy’s, and for a moment neither of them speaks or moves; Peggy feels herself sinking slowly into those soft emerald depths, and it isn’t long before the growing ache in her gut forces her to look away. “I still miss him, you know,” She says, so quiet that Angie leans forward and reaches across the table for her hand. “Before I met him, fighting in the war was just a job to me. But to him, there were things about this world that were worth saving _._ Worth dying for.” Peggy sighs and turns back to hold Angie’s gaze once more. “I thought I’d never find anyone else like him.” _But then I met you,_ she thinks. Angie's obviously nothing like Steve; unbelievably chatty where he'd been quiet, flippant where he'd been serious - but her simple, almost stoic optimism reminds Peggy of him like no one else ever had _._  She doesn't say anything, though, and for a while neither of them speak. 

Angie is the first to break the silence. "I was in love with a friend at school once - she was in my house one day when my parents caught us - well... to cut a long story short, they chased her out and told her never to come back. She ran away and two days later, the police found her body floating down the river.” Her voice cracks a little at the end, and Peggy sucks in a breath. She's terrified by the pain in Angie’s voice, but she's also terrified by the lump in her own throat and how much she _cares_ about this woman - how much she wants to wrap her arms around her and do everything in her power to make sure that nothing and nobody would ever hurt her again. 

“Anyway–" Angie continues, "She was my first love. After her, I thought I’d never love again.” She pauses for a while, then smiles wryly at Peggy. “I did though,” She says softly, grinning for real now. She doesn’t elaborate, and Peggy doesn’t assume. 

The waiter comes over with the food, and instead of thinking about what Angie had said, or the female pronouns she'd used, or her own confusing riot of emotions, she digs into her bowl of pasta and busies herself with chewing. They're both content to steer the conversation away to other things, things that do not call into question Peggy’s feelings for Angie, or Angie’s feelings for Peggy, or this blossoming – _intimacy?_ – between them and where it’s headed.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughter, light conversation, and a couple glasses of good wine. Peggy insists on paying, and Angie shakes her head and lets her. They tumble out into the streets, cold air brushing against their cheeks, nipping at the exposed skin on their legs, the alcohol warming them up from within. The soft glow of the street lamps cast golden shadows on Angie’s exquisite features, and Peggy can scarcely tear her eyes away – it’s all she can do to prevent herself from leaning in and – _god, what was she thinking?_ She shivers and forces herself to look away,  _s_ hrugging off the strange, unfamiliar tightness in her chest.  

They reach the Griffith at about eleven, and Ms. Fry narrows her eyes at them. “No gentlemen?” She barks; the question comes out more like an order. Peggy shakes her head wryly, half amused and half exasperated by the woman’s one-track mind.

“No, no gentlemen, Ms. Fry. Have a good night.” They walk up the stairs to their rooms, and Peggy pauses outside Angie’s door. For some reason, they’ve lapsed into a silence that neither of them know how to break, and for whatever reason, Angie looks almost _nervous._ She’s chewing on her lip and her eyes are burning holes into Peggy’s. Angie opens her mouth once, then apparently thinks better of it and closes it again.  

Peggy frowns and is about to ask if there’s anything wrong, but before she can say anything, Angie leans in and plants a quick, shy peck on her cheek and the words die instantly in her throat. All coherent thought goes flying out of the window.

Angie mistakes Peggy's silence for horror and steps back quickly. She's already opening her mouth, mind racing with possible explanations for the kiss – friendly intentions, too much to drink maybe, except she hasn’t drunk _nearly_ enough for that to be plausible – but all Peggy does is pulls her into a tight embrace. 

Angie sighs in relief and melts into her arms, breathing in faint traces of the dessert they’d split earlier at the diner and the subtle floral notes of the perfume Peggy wears. 

“I had a really great night, Angie,” Peggy murmurs, mouth inches from the smaller woman’s ear. “We should do it again sometime soon.” Her proximity makes the hair on Angie’s neck stand on end. Mouth suddenly dry, Angie nods wordlessly and wonders if Peggy can hear the pounding of her heart. 

Almost a minute passes before Peggy finally lets go and steps back, and Angie is immediately tempted to pull her back for another hug. She doesn’t, though – just smiles and says “good night, English,” and goes into her room before she does something that might be a little harder to explain. Peggy watches her go, fingers flitting unconsciously to the spot on her cheek where Angie’s lips had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. So, apparently I took so long to follow up with this chapter that the entire Season 2 has ended and Peggy is getting embroiled with Sousa and Wilkes and Angie appears just once in a dream scene... MAN.  
> 2\. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this! :)


	3. Peggy’s not a big fan of guys in general

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (But particularly guys who seem to be very good friends with a particular blonde waitress.)

It was becoming a bit of a problem. Two days ago, Peggy’d nearly stabbed a _fork_ into a paying customer’s pudgy fingers just because he’d been rude – well, he’d been coming on too strong – to Angie, and tonight, it was taking up all of her brain power just to prevent herself from getting up and landing a solid punch on this arrogant _beefcake_ of a man who’s brazenly flirting with Angie right in front of – well, right in front of her.

Peggy sighs, knowing that she’s being ridiculous. The fact that she _can’t stop_  only makes her even more exasperated. She certainly has far more important things to care about – like dealing with guys who were _actually_ dangerous, but when she’s not thinking about punching the lights out of every person, male or female, who comes within an arms’ length of Angie, she’s thinking about _Angie herself_ – her soft green eyes, her smile, her tinkling laugh and the beautiful sweep of her lips; and it’s beyond distracting. Peggy pauses.  _Why the heck was she even thinking about_   _Angie’s_ lips? She lets out a strangled cry of exasperation and buries her reddening face in her hands _._

Angie notices and comes over to see if she’s alright. “I’m fine,” Peggy says, flicking Angie a small smile. “Sorry.” She takes a deep breath and shuffles the papers that Jarvis had collated and passed to her earlier that night. 

Angie pats her gently on the shoulder. “Well, I’m off in about an hour. Wait for me tonight?”

Peggy nods, slightly amused that the other woman even has to _ask_ anymore. Every night for the past two weeks, as long as she's not embarking on some late-night escapade with Edwin Jarvis, Peggy has been coming over to the L&L to pore over the pages upon pages of information that she and Jarvis had collected on various leads. Angie occasionally slides into the seat next to her for a quick chat, sometimes sneaking her a drink or a cake when there's a lull period (or when she thinks the boss isn't looking). Peggy would stay until closing, and then they’d walk back to the Griffith together. The English spy likes routines in general – likes having structure to her days and knowing what she'll be doing every hour of every day – but there’s no point denying that she does seem to like _this_ particular routine more than average.

Tonight is especially nice because it’s Friday, and they’re both looking forward to the weekend – well, Peggy knows she still has plenty of SSR paperwork to catch up on (things she’s neglected because she's been too busy saving Stark's ungrateful ass), but still, on weekends she sees a lot more of Angie and that always seems to put her in a chipper mood.

On the way back to the Griffith, Angie asks her out for brunch and Peggy doesn't even hesitate. Her paperwork could damn well wait till Sunday. 

... 

Their morning passes in perfect bliss – After a long, hearty breakfast of pancakes (Angie's favorite) and bacon (Peggy's), they tumble out of the diner and decide to amble along the broad, sunny streets, chatting lazily and pausing at every shop window to take a peek. Somehow, strolling through the city with Angie by her side makes Peggy feel like she has all the time in the world and not a care to her name - it's a refreshing change from her usual hectic (literally life-threatening) schedule and as much as she likes feeling _busy, useful_  (knuckle deep in some valiant mission to save the world)Peggy thinks that she could definitely do with some lazy Saturday mornings once in a while. And Angie, as usual, is excellent company. 

At some point in the morning, Angie's hand sneaks its way into Peggy’s pocket, and the brunette doesn't say anything – just reaches down into her own pocket, pretending she’s looking for something, and just well – just leaves her hand there, letting her warm fingers curl around Angie's like it's the most natural thing in the world. The grin on Angie’s face is enough to melt a woman’s heart. 

... 

They are milling about a farmer’s market when Angie gets a hearty thump on her back and turns around. It’s a tall, well-built guy, blonde, blue-eyed and as handsome as they came. He’s grinning almost as widely as Peggy is scowling.

“ _Angie,_ ” He says, pulling the woman into a tight hug. “I thought I’d never see you again. You acting in anything recently?" Angie shakes her head. He frowns, looking genuinely disappointed, and puts his hands on her shoulders. "I’ll put a word in to the producers of my next show – it'll be _swell_ to have you on _Beach Patrol._ " He pauses, eyes twinkling slightly. "You know...I still remember that kiss you gave me back in  _Blue Thursday_ _. Christ_ , that was a killer.” He says, still beaming, and Peggy notes with a plunging heart that Angie’s _smiling back._

“Couldn’t’ve done it without you, Marcus.” She says, winking at him. Peggy feels a stab of betrayal, but stays stock-still, expression stony and unreadable. _Not that either of them would notice, the way they were staring so intently at each other,_  Peggy noted sourly. “You’ll really talk to Fabianski for me?” 

“Of course. Anything for you, sweetheart.” He places his hand over his heart in mock devotion and grins at her. Peggy grits her teeth and walks off before she  _actually_ knocks out all his pearly-white, perfectly-aligned teeth. She stops once at a vendor located at the opposite end of the farmer's market and leans against the table, trying desperately to calm her pounding heart. The poor vendor is chattering to her about his vegetables, but Peggy really can't care less about bloody red peppers right now.

She’s honestly rather disgusted with herself. This guy, _Marcus_ – whoever he was, looked like a relatively decent guy, and Angie seemed to genuinely like him – as friends, as something more, and either way, it really wasn’t any of her business. It definitely didn’t give her any reason to be _this_ mad. Still though, she can't seem to push aside the feeling of  _betrayal_ crawling under her skin like worms on asphalt after a heavy rain - can't help thinking that the smiles, the winks, the light touches that had set her skin on fire; the tenderness and warmth and sweet, dangerous _intimacy_ they’d shared over the past few months was simply the way Angie treated _all_ her close friends. It made her feel sick to her stomach, and just that itself was probably enough to alert her to the fact that her feelings for Angie extended beyond ordinary friendship – but as intelligent as the English spy was about things like war and weapons and raids and hand-to-hand combat, she was absolutely clueless about _stuff like this._

Her musings are terminated prematurely when she feels a hand - Angie's - rest gently on the small of her back. Angie spins her around gently and slides her hand down to Peggy's waist. The English woman feels her breath hitch involuntarily in her throat even though it's goddamn inappropriate right now because she's  _angry,_ for Christ's sake. 

“Peggy,” Angie says, voice soft, eyes are gentle, almost apologetic, as if she knows why Peggy’s feeling this way even though Peggy’s not quite sure herself. 

“He’s a _friend,_ ” Angie starts.

“I know,” Peggy says curtly, trying to turn around again, but Angie stops her, puts her other hand on the other side of Peggy’s waist and tugs her closer.  

“We acted together. The kiss – it was part of the show _._ ”

Peggy blinks and clenches her jaw. Angie’s hands on her waist are making her _feel_ _things_ that she really doesn’t want to feel right now. “Really, Angie, it’s none of my business. You don’t have to explain.”

“No Peggy, listen to me, I don’t like him, I just-”

“Look, Angie, _whatever_ , okay? I just – I’m being stupid, just _let me go_.” Peggy jerks herself away from Angie and walks away. It’s too late though, she can’t un-see the hurt on Angie’s face, can’t stop the throbbing in her chest that gets progressively worse with every minute that passes.

It takes her a grand total of six minutes to realize what a colossal idiot she'd been, but by that time, Angie has already disappeared somewhere into the crowded streets. She still couldn't quite put a finger on _what_  she'd felt or  _why_ she'd felt that way, but she  _did_ know that it would be  _astoundingly_ stupid, even for her, to throw away the best friendship she'd ever known just because she'd had a problem with some stupid blonde guy who’d happened to kiss Angie because they were _actors, acting_ in a TV show.

She sighs and decides to try and catch Angie back at the Griffith. Almost on a whim, she stops by a small muffin shop beforehand and gets one of the banana ones she knows Angie’s crazy about. Soon, she's knocking on Angie's door. Angie opens it, lets her in, shuts it again, and sits back down on her bed. She waves Peggy over. The English woman hesitates a little, but sits down next to her nonetheless, feeling herself sink down a little on the soft bed.

“Angie, I'm sorry about this morning.” Peggy says. If there's anything the woman was good at, it was coming straight to the point. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Angie sighs. “Were you jealous?” She asks, and Peggy’s first instinct is to deny it. _Of course she hadn’t been jealous, what did she have to be jealous about?_ But as the silence stretches on, Peggy realizes that  _was_ probably part of it.

“Maybe a bit,” she says. “But mostly hurt. I - I feel different about you, Angie, I don’t know how else to put it.” She pauses for a while, biting her lip. Angie’s eyes are burning holes into hers, and she feels her heart flutter nervously. She swallows and continues. “I don’t know, I just felt – I felt like I was special to you, and seeing you with him, well – I realized that I wasn’t so special after all.” She sighs and looks away. 

Angie reaches out and tilts Peggy’s chin back so they’re face-to-face. “Peggy, you _are_ special to me. I’m very sorry if I made you think otherwise. I was - I was flirting with him a little, I guess. Mostly just for fun, but partly ‘cause well, it _would_ be nice to have him talk to Fabianski for me." She pauses. "Do you think badly of me?” 

Peggy sighs. “Of course I don’t. But-” She pauses and closes her eyes, says the words before she has time to second-guess herself- “Then how do I know what’s _real_ , Angie?” 

She feels Angie’s soft hands cup her face. “You’ll know,” Angie says softly. “I promise.” The honesty in her eyes is almost too much for Peggy – she suddenly gets this crazy urge to lean in and _kiss_ Angie. The thought takes Peggy so completely by surprise that she falls off the bed and lands on her butt. 

Angie lets out a laugh, tries to stifle it, but then Peggy starts laughing and that sets Angie off and pretty soon, both of them are laughing their heads off. "Not quite the response I was expecting, but I'll take it." Angie says, once she's caught her breath. Peggy reaches for a hand and Angie hauls her back up.

Peggy remembers the muffin. “Oh yeah by the way, I brought something by way of a peace offering.” She jerks her chin at the table. “I thought maybe the simplest way back to your heart was through your stomach.”

Angie punches her playfully in the arm. “I’m going to let that one go, English. But _only_ because you brought me food.” 

Peggy grins and doesn’t point out the irony in that statement. Angie takes a large mouthful out of it. “’S _really_ good,” She says, spilling crumbs everywhere as she spoke. She offers the muffin to Peggy. “You should try it.”

Peggy smiles and obliges. She makes a small noise of approval and tries to take another bite out of it, but Angie’s playfully elbowing her away. “ _One bite_ , English – is this _my_ peace offering or yours?” Peggy rolls her eyes and grumbles something about impertinent waiters, but her eyes are smiling and Angie smirks at her. "Ah, but you like 'em that way don't you?" she says, letting loose the single, most devastating wink known to mankind. Or, to Peggy at least. The mini heart attack she suffers makes the English spy wonder (not for the first time), what the hell she was going to do with herself.


	4. Peggy has no time for bullshit like Valentine’s Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, except if Angie Martinelli is involved.

Peggy’s sitting in Jarvis’ car, mopping up the blood from a recently-obtained cut on her forehead with one of his handkerchiefs – they’d just returned from a particularly violent fist-fight – when Edwin suddenly asks if she has any plans for Valentine’s. She nearly jabs herself in the eye. “ _What_?” She stares at him incredulously. “Mr. Jarvin, we’ve just discovered a weapon that could possibly start a _third_ World War just _months_ after the second one has ended. Do I look like I have the time for such gormless festivities?”

Edwin Jarvis sighs. “Impending world war or not, Miss Carter, you _do_ need some rest. I’ve seen that cut on your face, Agent, you need stitches at the very least.”

She rolls her eyes, then winces at the pain. Jarvis glares at her, as if to say _I told you so_ , and she glares back at him. “I can take care of myself perfectly well, Mr. Jarvis.”

He sighs again. “I _know_ you can, Miss Carter. I just think that it can’t hurt for us to take _one_ day off. I was thinking of taking my wife out to dinner, and-” 

“ _I knew it_.” She says triumphantly, smirking at him through the front mirror. “Any _other_ plans, Mr. Jarvis?”

“- _and_ wouldn’t you like to go out with Miss Martinelli?” 

 Peggy chokes on her own saliva. She turns around and fixes him with a full-on glare. “Just what do you – _why_ – _what_ makes you think that, Mr. Jarvis?”

He narrows his eyes, but does not take his eyes off the road. “You know what I mean, Miss Carter. I’ve seen the way you look at her-”

“-and _how_ exactly do I look at her, Mr. Jarvis?” Peggy asks. Her voice is even, and thankfully, the darkness hides the spreading blush on her cheeks.

“Like she means the world to you.”

Peggy scowls at him. “I look at her just like any other normal human being would, Mr. Jarvis.”

He sighs. “I’m not going to win this argument, am I?”

Peggy cracks a smile. “I don’t think so, Mr. Jarvis.”

He chuckles, and they lapse into silence for a while. Moments pass, until finally Peggy blurts, “what would you suggest – um, if I were to – ah, you know, if you were going to take someone out for-” she was floundering, beet red with embarrassment and already _kicking_ herself for opening her mouth. Edwin glances at her and tries his best to keep a straight face. He fails rather spectacularly. Peggy grits her teeth and scowls at him. 

“Just spend some time with her, Agent Carter.”

She groans in exasperation and shakes her head. “Thank you so very much for your _extremely insightful_ advice, Mr. Jarvis. God. Why did I ever think you’d be helpful?”

Edwin Jarvis laughs. “Your mistake, Agent. Shall I drop you off here?” They’d reached the entrance of the Griffith, and Peggy thanks him for the ride. She pulls open the door and gets out. He grins at her and touches his hat, eyes glinting mischievously. “Good luck tomorrow, Ms. Carter.” 

“Yeah yeah, don’t enjoy yourself too much,” she mutters, shutting the door behind her. 

...

Right before lunch hour, Peggy sees Danny heading towards her desk out of the corner of her eye and winces at the bouquet tucked surreptitiously in the crook of his right elbow. She gets up quickly and makes her way out of the office as inconspicuously as possible. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees catches the disappointed frown on Danny’s face as he watches her leave, and it makes her feel rather guilty - but she _does_ have to catch Angie before her lunch break is up. She's not looking forward to turning him down later on that afternoon, though.

She makes a quick stop at a Chinese takeaway place, then to a gift shop just down the street from the Automat. It’s the first time she’s stepped foot in such a place since the war, and also the first time she’s even _considered_ buying anyone a Valentine’s day gift in her life. It’s turning out to be a lot more difficult than she thought. She flips through the huge variety of V-day cards displayed on a rack by the front of the shop and has to stop herself from making a face. “Christ,” she grumbles, “whoever came up with this is nearly as bad as I am, and _that’s_ saying something.” The customer browsing through the adjacent rack of cards hears her, and decides to take it upon herself to help.

“Looking for something for your sweetheart?” She asks, smiling. Peggy doesn’t even have time to answer before the woman is showing her a card with a grinning ear of corn on it. “I like this one,” she tells Peggy, who sighs and reluctantly accepts the proffered card. It reads, _this is a little corn-y, but I sure would like to ‘ear you say you’ll be my Valentine._ The woman sees the look on Peggy’s face and reaches for another card. “Maybe your lucky man would like something a little more... _manly_? How about this one?” She picks out another one with a large red tractor.

“Um it’s alright, thank you,” Peggy says, trying not to look too mortified. She can scarcely believe she’s doing this – bonding with a complete stranger over Valentine’s day cards – but she admits that having frivolous things to worry about was a very welcome change from the grim, harsh realities of war.

In the end, Peggy gives up on the gift shop and dashes over to a small grocer for a box of her favorite tea instead. She scribbles a short note to tack on, then heads over to the Automat to see Angie.

The waitress nearly drops the tray she’s carrying when she sees Peggy standing by the entrance. She dumps the drinks unceremoniously on the table and rushes over, an impossibly wide grin plastered on her face. “Hey you,” she breathes, eyes shining with excitement.

“Hi Angie,” Peggy says, returning the smile with one of her own. “Do you have time for lunch? I brought some takeaway and I was hoping we could pop by Central Park for a while."

Angie’s pleasantly surprised, but she agrees immediately and pops into the kitchen to inform her boss. She’s back in an instant, and they head out together. They’re both grinning so hard that Peggy _knows for a fact_ that they look absolutely ridiculous, but couldn’t quite care less. They sit down under the shade of a large tree, and Peggy passes Angie a box of fried noodles. When they’re done, Angie settles her head on Peggy’s shoulder and Peggy leans back on the tree, both enjoying the sunshine and each other’s company. 

An hour passes by in the blink of an eye, and Angie sighs and straightens up. “I have to go,” She says reluctantly. 

Peggy nods. “Me too.” 

They both stand up and begin the walk back to the Automat. Peggy’s starting to feel slightly fluttery. The more she thinks about it, the more nervous she gets. What if Angie already _had_ a date? What if she _didn’t_ have a date, but didn’t want to have dinner with her anyway? Was it too much to get her a gift? Was it too much even to have _dinner,_ considering the implications of a dinner together, alone, on _Valentine’s_ day? 

She sighs and pauses to wipe her now-clammy hands on her skirt. She felt more nervous _now_ than when she'd run straight into the line of machine-gun fire during the war, more nervous than when she'd stared right down the barrel of a gun, and when she'd disabled a Nitramene bomb with her bare hands. And all she had to do now was ask Angie Martinelli out for dinner. How absolutely ridiculous.

They’d reached the entrance of the Automat, so it was now or never. Peggy stops and forces herself to take a deep breath. “Um Angie?” The blonde stops too, and turns around to face her. “I was just wondering um, well, do you have any plans for tonight?” 

Angie blinks. “Nope.”

Peggy swallows. “Well, in that case, I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me.”

Angie nods; the smile that comes next is slow, almost heartbreakingly shy.  

Peggy breathes out and grins in relief. “I’ll see you back at the Griffith at 7, then?” 

“Yup!” Angie’s about to walk into the Automat when Peggy remembers the box of tea sitting at the bottom of her bag.

She passes it over to Angie, turning slightly pink. “I just thought – you know, since you introduced me to coffee the first time we met-”

Angie laughs and hugs her. “You sure you don’t want to spill this on me, too?”

Peggy laughs too, and Angie reaches up to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Thank you.”  Her green eyes linger on Peggy’s, then darts down to her lips. It’s so brief that Peggy’s not quite sure if she’d imagined the whole thing. A moment later, Angie steps back and gives her a wave. Peggy waves back, then starts walking back to the office, heart thumping wildly in her chest. The smile on her face lasts through the afternoon. Well, all the way up till the moment Agent Thompson swings round her desk. 

She pauses in the middle of her packing – it’s ten minutes to 6, and just like everyone else, she’s more than ready to go home. 

“Do you need anything, Agent Thompson?”

“Could you take care of this for me, Carter?” He drops a file on her desk. “It’s nothing much, just a routine arrest. Just bring him ‘round to the police station and leave ‘im there; we’ll question him in the morning.” 

Peggy’s jaw drops. _He has got to be kidding._ “Actually, Agent Thompson, I have plans for tonight, I have to meet-” 

“As do we all,” He says curtly. “Duty is duty, Agent Carter, and besides, you’ve been bugging me for a proper job all _month,_ and now _this_ is how you thank me?” 

She clenches her fists. “Can’t we do it tomorrow? You said yourself that no one’s going to be questioning him until tomorrow morning, anyway. What’s the point of making a possibly-innocent man spend a night in the station?” 

“Oh, he’s not innocent,” he says off-handedly, already walking away. “We need ‘im first thing tomorrow morning.” 

She grits her teeth and forces herself to sit down. She tells herself that beating the living daylights out of her direct commanding officer probably isn’t going to be very helpful in this situation. Or any situation, actually. She feels a gentle hand on her back, and turns round to see Danny looking down at her, his brown eyes sad but kind. Peggy knows from the look on his face that he’s heard everything. “I could do it for you,” he offers quietly. “I don’t have any plans tonight anyway.” The silence stretches uncomfortably over the both of them, and Peggy can't help but glance over at his desk, where the bouquet of flowers sit neglected and forlorn. They both know what he leaves unspoken – he doesn’t have plans because his plan had been to ask _her_ out _._ Peggy closes her eyes and exhales slowly.

“Danny,” she says softly. “Thank you, but you know I can’t do that.” 

He smiles at her sadly, then nods once, and hobbles away. She shakes her head and flips open the file Agent Thompson has left on her desk - she’s supposed to round up a Mr. Hensley from an apartment on the Upper East Side. According to the information they had, the guy was a pudgy Wall Street Executive who’s being investigated for tax fraud. As Agent Thompson had said, a relatively easy arrest.

She does some mental calculations – it would take her at least forty minutes to get to his apartment and from there, it’s another thirty minutes to the police station and twenty minutes to the Griffith Hotel. Assuming it took her ten minutes to slap a pair of handcuffs on him, the whole damn thing would take approximately an hour and forty minutes. She sighs and dials Angie’s number at the Griffith hotel – the next time she’d have access to a phone would be at the police station, and by her estimations, it would already be about seven twenty by then. Angie doesn’t pick up though; Peggy realizes that she’s probably not back from work yet. She leaves a quick, apologetic voice message explaining that something had came up at work, tells Angie she'll probably be there by 7:45, then grabs the file, her bag, and rushes out of the office. The designated SSR driver is already waiting for her at the curb.

All through the ride, she’s cursing Agent Thompson under her breath.

The driver pulls up to the driveway and asks her when he should come back for her. “Ten minutes,” she says, getting out of the car. She rings the doorbell. It’s opened by a tall, burly guy, who pulls her into the house and slams the door shut. “Can I speak to a Mr. Hensley?” She asks.

“What for?” He growls, narrowing his eyes at her.

“SSR,” she says, flashing him her ID card. The guy lifts a large fist and slams it right into her face. She staggers backward, and ducks desperately as he follows up with a swing at her right temple. It doesn’t collide squarely with the side of her head, but the sharp ring on his fourth finger rips a gash into the flesh just above her eyebrow. 

She blinks the blood out of her eyes. _What the hell happened to the ‘pudgy Wall Street executive’_? She grabs his arm when he comes in for another roundhouse punch, uses his own momentum to fling him over her shoulder. He slams into the ground, but he’s back on his feet immediately. She sidesteps a blow and smashes a fist into his jaw. He snarls and snatches a hand pistol from the table. “Hands in the air where I can see them!”  

Peggy grits her teeth and obeys. He trains the gun on her and takes a few cautious steps towards her. “What business does the SSR have with Mr. Hensley?” She doesn’t answer, just kicks out suddenly at the gun, sending it clattering to the ground. She steps in close to land a series of devastating punches, stopping only when the man crumples to the ground with a loud thud. 

Peggy snaps a pair of handcuffs to him and steps back, breathing heavily. She hears a quiet _click_ of a door being closed and swears. Bloody Mr. Hensley, probably. 

She sprints to the opposite end of the house and pulls open the back door. She's right - she sees the glimpse of his face before he takes off as fast as he can down the street. She swears again and gives chase, swiping at the blood pouring down from her forehead.

She catches up with him down a small side-alley. “Freeze, or I’ll shoot,” She says, pulling out her pistol in one smooth, practiced motion. He raises his arms, and she handcuffs him.

...

It’s nearly 7:30 by the time Peggy gets them both carted to the police station. The officer on duty wants the whole story, and Peggy gives it to him, staring at the wall clock as the minutes tick by. Finally, when all the paperwork is filled up, the officer asks her if she needs to be stitched up. “I’ll be fine,” She says, grimacing slightly at the pain. “Can I use your phone?” 

To her surprise, Edwin Jarvis picks up on the second ring, and agrees to come over to pick her without protesting that much.

He arrives in less than ten minutes, takes one look at her face and sighs. “I thought you weren’t going to work today,” he says.

“I _wasn’t_ ,” she says. “But Agent Thompson had other plans. Anyway, I’m a little late as it is-” 

“Ah,” He says solemnly. “Say no more.” Peggy spends the next five minutes clutching the seat in front of her, trying desperately not to throw up. He squeals to a stop right outside the Griffith. 

She thanks him weakly. “I didn’t know you could drive like that, Mr. Jarvis.” 

He smiles at her. “I am a man of many talents, Miss Carter. Would you like me to patch you up?”

Peggy’s about to say no when she catches sight of her reflection in the mirror and does a double take. She looks like she’s dressed up to the sixes for Halloween, except the ghastly white complexion and sticky blood running down the entire right side of her face are as real as they come. “Alright,” she says reluctantly. “Thank you.” Edwin Jarvis reaches for the first-aid-kit he’s taken to stowing away in the front compartment of the car for moments like these.

He sews her up as quickly as he can manage without poking out her eye, then swipes at the blood with a handkerchief. He leans back to admire his handiwork. “Mm. You look rather nice, if I may say so myself. Off you go now, I have a wife to placate.” He shoos her out of the car.

“Thank you, Edwin.” Peggy sprints into the Griffith hotel, earning a scowl from Ms. Fry – who was frankly, the least of her worries right now. She takes the stairs three at a time. 

When she knocks on Angie’s door, there’s nothing but stony silence. “Hey, it’s me. Can I come in?” More silence. “Please, Angie.” 

“It’s open.” Peggy pushes open the door. Angie’s eyes find hers from across the room, and Peggy’s heart plummets when she realizes that she has been crying. She’s beside her in an instant. “Angie, please don’t be mad. I’m really sorry, I got caught up at work, and-”

“You said you’d be here at seven forty-five,” Angie says. “It’s eight thirty.” 

“I know, it just – it got a lot more complicated than I thought it would-”

Angie looks away. “Look, Peggy, I understand. I saw Mr. Jarvis' car in the driveway." She sighs. "He asked you out for dinner and of course you said yes. It’s Valentine’s day, after all.” She pauses to swipe angrily at a stray tear running down her cheek. “I’m glad one of us had a good time.”

Peggy’s heart nearly breaks. “Oh Angie, that’s not true,” she says softly. She reaches out to take Angie’s hands in hers, half expecting the woman to jerk away. She doesn’t, though, and Peggy takes it as permission to continue. “Mr. Jarvin was driving me back from the police station.” She leans in closer. “There’s nobody else I’d rather spend Valentine’s day with, Angie."

Their eyes meet. Peggy envelopes Angie’s lips with hers. The other woman lets out a small sound of surprise, but in less than a heartbeat, she’s leaning in and pressing deeper, hands fisted in Peggy’s dark hair. A soft whimper escapes from Peggy’s lips – Angie growls and pushes her back until they’re both pressed up against each other; Peggy’s back hits the wall with a thud and her eyes flutter open in surprise. Angie pauses, then moves her hands away from Peggy’s chest and leans back, green eyes blazing with an emotion that Peggy can’t quite read.

“Don’t you _dare_ apologize and say it was a mistake,” she says fiercely, voice cracking a little at the end. The vulnerability in her voice very nearly breaks Peggy’s heart.

Peggy reaches out and cups Angie’s chin gently. “Of _course_ it wasn’t. I’ve been wanting to do that for ages now,” she says, lips curling up into a grin. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to do it again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic pretty much ends here - the other chapter is just an epilogue :) Hope you guys enjoyed it! Super open to taking prompts and ideas for new fics. And kudos and comments, anytime. Also, I have a tumblr! :D http://allieebobo.tumblr.com/


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